


Just Once

by Ptolemia



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age II
Genre: (shocking I know), F/F, Fluff, rated teen for mentions of nudity and also the implication that Sex Has Occured, teeny bit angsty but essentially
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-21
Updated: 2015-03-21
Packaged: 2018-03-18 19:54:30
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,462
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3581874
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ptolemia/pseuds/Ptolemia
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>From a tumblr prompt. Hawke/Isabela 'Just once'.</p><p>It's raining, so Isabela stays the night. Which doesn't mean anything. Unless, of course, it does. Set some time during early Act 3, before Isabela's personal quest.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Just Once

Normally Isabela has her corset tied and her boots on and is out the window before Hawke has a chance to so much as consider making conversation, but today her fingers fumble with the laces a fraction longer than is usual. A clap of thunder and she stops altogether, gazing out of the window with a slight frown. And Hawke, being Hawke, doesn't know when to leave well enough alone, so she sits up and says, “Horrible weather, isn't it?”  
Isabela shrugs.  
“I suppose it's a good thing, though,” continues Hawke, “I mean, we need the rain, for the gardens. Merrill mentioned that. And Bodhan.”  
A raised eyebrow.  
“I mean, good for plants, not for... not for people going about in it. Because people aren't plants. Um. You should... I...”  
“Mmm?”  
“I mean, you could stay. Since it's raining.”  
Isabela turns her back, and her fingers go back to the laces of her corset. Which hurts, of course, just like it does every time Hawke goes scrambling out of bed after her, or reaches out as she stands up, or calls out at the back of a figure hopping out the window only to be met with silence, or a giggle, or some flippant retort which stings for all that it's meant in jest. But it's an old hurt now, a dull little ache lodged somewhere deep and unreachable beneath Hawke's ribs, so she just sighs, and flops back down onto the bed. No point trying to persuade Isabela now. Especially after she's embarrassed herself so thoroughly by rambling on about the weather, and plants, and... she sighs and pulls a pillow over her face.

Hawke is so caught up in her own miserable internal monologue that she doesn't notice the sound of a corset hitting the floor, and then one boot, and then the other. She doesn't notice the sound of bare feet padding gently over the floor toward the bed. She doesn't notice anything, indeed, until Isabela flops down next to her and tugs at the covers.  
“Come on then, budge up.”  
Hawke sits up again in a flash, poker straight, eyes wide.  
“What? It's raining. Stop hogging the covers and move up.”  
“I... you... right. Yep. Covers. There's another pillow somewhere here too I... uh...” even to her own ears Hawke sounds too high-pitched, too frantic. In another minute or two Isabela will change her mind, surely, and scurry off into the night like she always does.  
But she does nothing of the sort - just chuckles, softly, and rubs the back of her neck. If Hawke didn't know better, she'd say she looked almost shy. “Hawke. Calm down. You're – Hawke, don't make this weird. Please. It's raining and I'm tired and I want to go to sleep here. Just this once.”  
Hawke blinks. “Just once. That's... fine. It's fine! I have a pillow somewhere but I forget where I put it... if I did put it somewhere and it didn't just wander off. You never know what might happen, what with all these blood mages Meredith keeps talking about. Could be enchanting people's pillows. Could well be.”  
Isabela shakes her head and slings her arms around Hawke, dragging her back so that she's lying down again. “We'll share. Calm down, alright?”

Hawke wants to reply, to make a joke, to say that she is calm, or course she is, but she has the strangest lump in her throat and she knows that if she tries to talk she can't trust her voice not to crack. Stupid voice. Stupid heart. Stupid fucking Hawke, most of all, for falling for somebody who'll give her absolutely anything other than what she wants.  
Isabela tugs the covers up and wraps her arms tighter around Hawke, planting a lazy kiss on the top of her head. “Cold?”  
Hawke shakes her head.  
“But you're shivering like- Hawke, are you crying?”  
“...no.”  
“Hawke!”  
She feels smooth, careful fingers tilting her jaw up, and she almost tries to resist but there's not much point. She glances up at Isabela's eyes, which are full of some emotion or other, no doubt, but Hawke doesn't try to guess what it is. Isabela has eyes like the sea, which is nothing to do with the colour and everything to do with the fact that the surface gives very little away about what strange currents may or may not go tearing through the depths.  
“It's nothing,” Hawke mumbles, “It's just that I, I hit my shoulder on the bedpost. Earlier. It hurts, that's all.”  
“Oh, sweet thing,” mutters Isabela. For a moment those strange eyes look infinitely soft, and tender, but Hawke tries not to read too much into it. And then she sighs and says, “Which shoulder?”  
“Which... oh, uh... my right.”  
Isabela leans forward and kisses it. “Better?”  
“Bit higher up,” says Hawke, glad of the distraction.  
Another kiss.  
“Or maybe it was my left, now I think about it.”  
Isabela grins, and kisses the other shoulder too.  
“I think maybe I also hurt my neck?”  
Isabela swats playfully at her arm. “Of course you did.”  
“It hurts!”  
“Don't be such a drama queen. Come here.”  
Once again Hawke finds herself enveloped in Isabela's arms, face tucked into the crook of her neck, warm curve of breasts and stomach and thighs pressed up against her.

They shuffle for a while longer, familiar enough with the shape of one another but unsure of the logistics of sleeping – of actually _sleeping_ \- together.  
Isabela runs a hand gently through Hawke's hair. “I'm sorry.”  
“About my shoulder?”  
“Mmm.”  
And it is warm, and soft, and comforting, lying tangled up with Isabela, soft breath in her ear, careful hand smoothing down her hair, stroking along her shoulder. As if this were natural, and everyday, and normal. Outside the thunder rolls into the distance and the rain patters away to almost nothing but Hawke, sound asleep, doesn't notice a thing.

*****

A loud knock on the door thrusts Hawke abruptly into wakefullness, and she blinks into the sunlight, trying to process it all – bright light and Isabela, half asleep beside her, and somebody at the door announces they're about to enter and she should probably say-  
“- because I have some reports I need you to – oh, maker, Hawke, give me some warning!”  
\- something.  
“Don't come in, Aveline,” says Hawke.  
Aveline puts a hand over her eyes and makes a noise of deep discontent. “Fat lot of good that is now.”  
“Sorry.”  
“You should be!”  
“You, uh... you wanted to see me?”  
“Not that much of you!”  
“I said sorry.”  
“Hmmph! But, yes, I did - I had some reports I wanted to-”  
Isabela laughs, sliding out of bed and picking up her boots. “Are you hanging around because you want an invitation to join, big girl?”  
“Oh, you wish” grunts Aveline, keeping her hand firmly grasped over her eyes as she steps out of the door. She pauses just before pulling it shut, and says, “But Hawke, can we talk this over quickly? It's important. Obviously not as important to you as your... you know what, I don't want to think about this. Ever. Get dressed and come and talk to me.” Then the door clicks shut.

Hawke laughs, turning toward Isabela. “I think we traumatised Aveline.”  
“It's good for her.”  
The smile slips from Hawke's face as she sees that the other woman is now almost fully dressed, just finishing tugging one boot up her thigh.“So, uh. You're off.”  
“I'm off! The Champion has important business with the Guard Captain! Far be it from me to intrude.” Isabela gives a dramatic bow, and winks.  
“Right. Well.”  
“Unless...”  
“Unless?”  
“Nothing. Don't worry about it.”  
Isabela turns to leave, and, because Hawke is Hawke and doesn't know when to leave well enough alone, she goes scrambling out of bed, catches her by the shoulder and says, “Bela, wait, last night... that was... I mean, it was just... you didn't want to be caught in the rain?”  
“That's what I said, isn't it?”  
“And it was just once, just because of the rain.”  
“Just once,” says Isabela, and Hawke feels her heart sink, which is stupid, stupid, stupid, because she knew that that was the answer and had been foolish and hopeful enough to ask anyway.  
“Right,” she says, keeping her voice admirably steady. “Fine.”  
“... just once,” says Isabela, pulling Hawke close, “because from now on, you come and stay at the Hanged Man instead. The ale's better, and Little Miss Manhands won't come searching after you there.”  
“Wait, what?”  
Isabela leans in and kisses her, careful and quick and surprisingly chaste. “You heard,” she says, and ducks away out of the window with a wink before Hawke, dumbstruck and grinning like an idiot, can question her further.


End file.
